


An Optional Way

by simeysgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drinking & Talking, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Hogwarts, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27408223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simeysgirl/pseuds/simeysgirl
Summary: Harry has had enough and he can't see a way through until he spots a familiar figure in the pub one night.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 76





	An Optional Way

**Author's Note:**

> The title (and the inspiration for the fic) comes from twenty one pilots' Neon Gravestones. Thanks, as ever, to D, for being you.

I want to, but I can't.

They're always here. I get up in the morning, and Hermione is popping in to see if I want to walk with her to work. Ron is owling me after work about the quidditch scores and asking for me out for a pint to discuss them. The Prophet is detailing the latest in the hunt for the rogue Death Eaters and my fellow Aurors are excited and making plans. Molly is popping in with food and details of her friend's single nieces and nephews. I spend too many evenings with her so I don't have to spend another bland evening with the simpering fools she tries to set me up with.

They're always here. The only time I have alone is when I'm asleep. My dreams manage to do what I can't, but that's the closest I can get. It's not close enough.

I want to, but I can't.

They always need something. Teddy firecalls to ask for help with his lessons. I want to be there for him, but I can't deal with his teenage angst. I love him, but I can only imagine what a normal fourteen year old boy is worried about. When I was fourteen, I was fearful for my life. Witch Weekly is asking for an interview. They can fuck off. They want to post pointless pictures of me with every single person I've ever met under the guise of 'my next greatest love', they don't get to hear the truth. Which I don't think they'd appreciate, but whatever. McGonagall is still wanting me to talk to the students. The last thing I want to do is to give a pep talk to a group of teenagers that don't even want to be there.

They always need something. I want to help, but I can't do everything. I don't want to do everything. I want to be me.

I want to, but I can't.

They always know me. I go to work and the underlings gape in the hallways. My fellow Aurors bend to my will, even though I'm still at the same level as them. I go to the pub to talk to Ron about quidditch and it falls silent when I walk in. I pop to the shops and I'm saluted and bowed to as I'm trying to buy my milk. I go to a club and try and make a connection with someone, but their gaze inevitably falls on my forehead and I'm suddenly either unattainable or a trophy to be won.  
They always know me. I want to smile. I want to talk to someone. I want to shag someone against the wall in some back alley somewhere, but I can't. Because they always know me.

I want to, but I can't.

They always revere me. Every week a new statue or street name or fucking park is being erected or named in my honour. I could do without the twelve foot brass statue of me standing smack bang in the middle of Diagon Alley, but no. I have to walk past it every single day. I could do without the huge plaque outside my own fucking house, stating that 'this is where the great Harry Potter plotted the downfall of Voldemort' as if I did it on my own. Every year, there are dedications and celebrations and bloody carnivals in my name. To celebrate my name. 

They always revere me. To them, I'm not Harry. I'm Harry Potter. Never shortened. Never whispered. Said out loud. Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World. 

~ ~ ~

It all started seven months ago. Ron had owled me to talk about the quidditch scores, so I met him in the pub to talk about it. Unsurprisingly, he had to leave to get home for the kids. Unsurprisingly, he asked me to go with him for a home cooked meal. Unsurprisingly, I said no. Surprisingly, you were the reason I declined.

I caught sight of you sitting in the corner on your own. I don't know why I hesitated. I don't know what drew me to you, but it did, Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the wanting to do something different. I don't know. I just know I couldn't help it, so I bought two pints and plopped them in front of you.

The look you gave me was hilarious. Like you thought it was a trap or I'd poisoned the beer or something. I asked if I could join you and I took your vacant stare as consent and sat down.

It became a thing. 

It took a few weeks of me finding you at your table in the corner after Ron had gone home to Hermione and the kids. It took countless pints and me unceremoniously plopping myself down at your table before you would actually talk to me.

I don't know why I persevered. I don't know what I was doing. I just know that I saw you and wanted to talk to you. So I did.

I rambled on about anything I could think of. I talked about quidditch. I talked about what I was up to. I talked about the aurors. I talked about recent cases. I asked what you were up to. I asked about your life.

You were polite, but didn't try to entertain me. You answered the questions; you talked in short sentences. 

It was surprising what got you to actually talk to me.

It was a simple thing, actually. Something I should have done a long time ago. I asked after your mother. 

I'd spoken up at her trial and told the world that I wouldn't have succeeded in killing that noseless bastard without her. Despite this, people ignored her and shunned her in the streets and I didn't like it, but I didn't know how to fix it.

You smiled. You told me she was doing well. She was enjoying her garden and had taken to completely redoing the Manor. You told me how she was adamant that the Manor be a home again, after being a place of horror during the war.

We talked about it for hours. We talked and we drank and we smiled.

It was amazing. People didn't want to talk to me about the war. Of course, they praised me and talked about me 'winning' the war. They didn't want to actually discuss the war. 

I told you about my time with Ron and Hermione in the tent. I talked about the dragon and the vault. I told you how your mother saved my life. 

You told me what it was like for you. You told me about the reality of having that noseless bastard in your house. You told me how you and your mother whispered in corners of the Manor that you didn't want to carry on with him—that you didn't know how you could make that happen. You told me how desperately you wanted your father to be on your side.

We talked about the night of Dumbledore's death. We talked about how you never wanted your mission. We talked about how desperately you wanted someone to save you.

We talked about the fact we were kids fighting an adult war, and neither one of us should've have been there. It wasn't our war. We were basically kids who had been fighting the same shit since we were tiny. 

We talked about how they tried to put you in prison with your father. You thanked me—quiet and stuttering—for speaking up for you. How could I not? You weren't like the rest of the Death Eaters. I knew that. I couldn't miss it. I was there when you refused to identify me in the Manor. Anyone else—they would've gleefully told the noseless bastard I was me, but you didn't. You wouldn't.

I always initiated conversation. Week after week, you talked more. You answered my questions with more than one word answers, but still—I talked and you answered. The routine was the same. I walked into the pub, whether alone or with Ron, and you were sat at your table in the corner. I'd either wait for Ron to go home or, if I was alone, I'd walk straight to your table. Without fail, by the end of the night, I found myself plopping myself and a couple of pints in front of you and saying, _'Alright, Malfoy?'_

The first time you spoke first, I'll never forget. One word. _'Draco,'_ you said, picking up your pint. 

The look of confusion must have been evident on my face as you soon clarified.

You told me to call you Draco. We'd gone past the pettiness of our youth. We were grown men and if we wanted to talk to one another, we should use our given names.

It was easy after that night. I'd walk in—either with Ron or without—and see you at your table. I'd walk into the pub—either with Ron or without—and at some point in the evening find myself alone and plopping two pints on the table and sitting down with you.

Conversation with you was easy. I don't know why, but it simply flowed. We'd discussed and put behind us the stuff from school. We talked about our lives now. You talked about your job and your friends and your life. I found myself enjoying hearing about it.

For a long time, I kept our meetings a secret. Not that I was embarrassed or ashamed. I liked the fact that it was just for me. You didn't expect anything from me. You didn't ask anything of me. Ever since your insistence that I call you Draco, you'd been calling me Harry. I liked being Harry with you. 

Yes, I was Harry with Ron and Hermione and Molly. I was Harry with my friends and family, but it felt different with you. We'd known each other for years, yet we weren't exactly friends. Not yet.

It was quite funny—for us anyway—how people discovered that we were drinking together. You'd been talking about this big contract you'd gone for with the Ministry for ages. You'd been so nervous. It would've put your business on the map. 

I was just walking through the lobby of the Ministry with Ron and Hermione, just on our way to lunch when I heard my name being called. Spinning around I saw you coming towards me. You were so excited, I don't think you even realised where we were and who I was with.

_'I got it!'_ you almost shouted when you reached me and I couldn't help it—I grabbed you and hugged you. I was so happy for you.

It took a few seconds before we both realised the silence that had fallen around us. Almost every witch and wizard in the vicinity were openly gaping, and Ron looked incredibly confused.

Knowing Hermione as I did, I quickly released you and turned to face her.

_'You remember Draco,'_ I said with a smile on my face. Both Ron and Hermione nodded meekly and the gathered crowds soon went back to normal.

I asked you to meet me in the pub after work for a celebratory drink and you invited Ron and Hermione to join us. It was amusing to see them both repeat their nodding from the second before. I'd never seen Hermione so quiet.

After that evening, I realised something. We were friends. We were spending a lot of time together and I looked forward to seeing you. I also realised something else. Something a lot more important, and something that was almost entirely down to you.

I no longer wanted to. 

I hadn't thought about it for so long, it took me a while to figure it out. I was waking up having had no dreams of doing it. I eagerly awaited Teddy's letters and was grateful for Molly's meals. I still didn't like the statues and the big plaque outside my house, but I could live with it. 

I wanted to live, full stop. I was happy. 

I _am_ happy with you.


End file.
